


Bad Blood

by TheScienceofDevotion



Series: All This Bad Blood [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dress-up, John - Freeform, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Angst, M/M, Mary - Freeform, Multi, Prom Night, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock Loves John, Teenlock AU, alcohol mention tw, balletlock, dance, drepression/anxiety implication tw, drug abuse tw, drug mention tw, mary morstan - Freeform, masquerade prom, morphine tw, needles tw, poor little gay baby sherlock, rugbyjohn, self harm mention tw, self mutilation mention tw, sort of, syringes tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:32:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3541367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScienceofDevotion/pseuds/TheScienceofDevotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and Sherlock Holmes; teenagers, best friends, closer than anyone could have ever even imagined it. But the latter still lives in a paranoid state that he will be left alone. Unfortunately for him, things happen in hiighschool. Love, proms. And none of it will do him any good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to the first part of my series 'All this Bad Blood,' inspired by Bastille's album of the same name. So, this is my first time doing this; enjoy 'Bad Blood,' and please let me know what you think about it/the idea of doing this series. Thank you! 
> 
> \- Sarah x
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Lyrics and titles do not belong to me, credit goes to Bastille.

He managed a coy wave to her as he passed her, turning away quickly so she wouldn't notice his blush. "You're going all red again," Sherlock commented, hugging his books to his chest closer.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John muttered, and unlocked the door of the dormitory room they shared. Sherlock kicked it shut with unnecessary force and dumped his work onto his bed, flopping down beside his coursework with a deep sigh, his fingers moving to work at loosening up his tie. "Long day?" John questioned, sitting down on his own bed. He picked up a rugby ball and spun it around in his hands.

"Dull. The usual. I think the only mildly challenging thing I did all day was Binomial Theorem," Sherlock answered, sounding somewhat deflated. His eyes flickered over to John's hands. Ever since the flyers had gone up, Sherlock had noticed the other boy could not keep them still, and Sherlock knew exactly why. It was obvious, really, and it was at times like this where he wished he didn't see everything as transparent, unlike other people.

"Binomial- isn't that higher maths or something? The little number thingys- what're they called again?" He muttered.

"Exponents, John."

"Right. Yeah, that." John looked at his rugby ball with a loving gaze, sighing deeply. Had it been for a different matter, had Sherlock not known the truth, he might have found it a somewhat amusing. Though it irritated him, and was painful beyond belief, he refused to put his friendship with John on the line. But, Christ. It hurt so much. Tonight would shatter him, he knew it.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He asked, picking up a book.

John lay down flat on his bed, flinging the ball up and catching it again, making it a continuous action. "Do you think she'll say yes?" He muttered.

Sherlock looked over at their matching outfits and masks. "John," he answered, sounding slightly exasperated, "she'll probably not even recognise you."

"Yeah, but what if she does? What if I make a complete fool of myself?" He asked.

Sherlock flipped the page without having even read it, trying to give himself that feel of achievement. It didn't come. "You won't. And besides, don't you know anyone else who could give you better advice? I'm hardly an advert for companionship. Not really... My field, that," he muttered. He was crumbling inside and there was nothing he could do about it. "You should try Graham. Let's see... He dated Elaine, then the girl with the blue hair, then Sophia, and... Who else? Oh, yes, that girl who ended up cheating on him twice. Lovely affair," he said blandly.

A reprimand followed. "Sherlock. Honestly, don't do that. And it's Greg, by the way. Try not to ruin his night by calling him by every G-starting male name that pops into your head with the exception of Greg."

Sherlock sat up and gave him a dark glare. "What do you expect me to say, John? Don't consult me for love, consult me for chemistry and once you've got a cadaver at your feet, call me."

John shook his head, but a small smirk lay upon him face. "Oh, Sherlock. You and your homicide-ridden wishes."

Sherlock let out a huff but said nothing. The next hour passed with little activity in the dorm room. John chattered out a monologue about his thoughts; Sherlock curled up away from him, focusing on his book so the worry lining John's voice, ridden with infatuation, didn't punch him so badly so as to make him sick. Slowly, darkness drew its cape over London as Sherlock, with little motivation, fumbled around at the clasps of his own cape. It was musketeer-like and black, just like John's, worn with a black, elegant mask, and worn over a t-shirt and pair of jeans of the same shade. Sherlock had decided he'd rather melt into the shadows. John, on the contrary, wore all white underneath his cape. It was one hour prior to the prom, and Sherlock was complaining as to why they had to get dressed so early.

John had insisted they put their costumes on and get ready early, so he could practice... His voice faded after that, and he disappeared into the bathroom to shave off his currently non-existent stubble, have a wash despite the shower he'd just taken, and to gel up his hair nicely.

"John," Sherlock called from his bed. "John," he repeated, louder. No reply. Sherlock hesitated, then paused. "John, I'll teach you how to dance so you don't make an absolute fool of yourself."

There came the sound of the tap switching off, and John appeared, his hair gelled up into a nice casual flick to the side. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly at the sight of him; a handsome young man whose black shirt outlined his sport-shaped torso, whose black jeans stuck to his elegantly shaped legs. The cape, though Sherlock thought it looked ridiculous on him, only completed John's masquerade outfit. It made him look like a dashing musketeer dressed in tight clothes.

"You will?" John asked, a smile brightening his face.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock answered, standing up, his heart beating pathetically through a clenched grip on it. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room and beckoned for John to come to him. "Come here," he murmured. John appeared hesitant, and that hurt the other boy. Sherlock gave him an exasperated look. "Look, do you want Mary or not?" He said, somewhat impatiently.

"Yes, I do, of course I do," John answered uncomfortably.

"Good," came the reply. "Now wrap your arms around my neck. I'll lead, teach you, and then you'll lead." Sherlock said.

John puckered his lips and slowly draped his arms around Sherlock's neck, feeling his neck heat up. 'I am not gay,' he told himself. 'I am not gay. Alright, then. Let's do this.' Sherlock reached out to press play on his laptop and out burst a song that was likely to pop up at the dance. Sherlock looked down at John and then slowly slid his arms around John's waist, pulling them together, unnecessarily close. John gulped. "You okay?" Sherlock murmured.

"Fine. Just a tad nervous, is all."

Sherlock frowned slightly. "Nervous? What for?"

John gave him an irritated look and Sherlock's concern disappeared from his angular features. "Right then," the taller boy murmured, and took the first step, leading John across the carpet. John wasn't a good dancer, not in the slightest. All his hard practice of being hammered into a muddy pitch and throwing himself on top of people had made grace something alien to him. However, Sherlock had to admit he was a fast learner. Perhaps he wasn't so hopeless after all.

Many words of apology erupted from John's mouth as Sherlock winced from John stepping on his blistered and raw toes. Ballet and pointe shoes had mutilated his toes, and having someone, a mesomorph like John, step on them did nothing but to waken the pain.

John continuously looked down at their feet to make things easier for himself. Sherlock let him do so for quite some time, but he then detached one arm from John's waist and gently raised his hand to John's chin. his fingertips brushed lightly against John's chest, and a certain tingling spread down from them, as if Sherlock were drunk.

It puzzled him. He wasn’t drunk. Was he…? Drunk on what, then? Wine, beer, vodka? Nonsense. It was something more peculiar to Sherlock, something he had never experienced before. Obsession? No, that was the wrong word. Infatuation. That was it. Sherlock placed two fingers underneath John’s chin and gently lifted, forcing his friend to look his right in the eyes. “Look at me,” he murmured. “Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

John swallowed hard. “Okay, okay. Alright,” he said, nodding, but was somewhat alarmed by the state of panic he perceived in Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock was, by now, struggling to keep his stoic composure up. It was becoming increasingly difficult, and he didn’t know if he would be able to hold himself together. Whilst one half of himself wanted John to be happy and have what he wanted, the other part of him was selfish, and broken, and wanted to grab John by the shoulders and just kiss him there, in the room, hard. “Good,” he said, though his voice was thick as he twirled John around, the shorter boy managing to not stumble. Sherlock breathed in their proximity, absorbed the moment, tried to wrap it up in a box and put it on a shelf in his mind palace, so he could keep this moment forever. He never wanted to forget it, no. Not ever. He knew he’d probably never find himself so close to John again, sharing body heat… it was overwhelming, the thought of losing this and never being able to trace his way back to it. Sherlock shook his feelings away with a low growl to himself.

“You alright?”

“Fine,” he muttered, and told himself to stop being so selfish and to teach. Focus. Which is what he did for quite some time, until the music ended. Sherlock started another song and told John to take the lead, only guiding him by voice for a small time, until he let John figure it out by himself. Focus. Sherlock’s thoughts wandered back to their platonic relationship. He knew he wasn’t worth it; he would never be worth what a romantic partner to John would be. Sherlock wished there was a way to show John how he felt, but he was too afraid to risk anything. Too afraid John would look at him with a different eye if he knew. Would he be skeptical of Sherlock hitting on him? Would he find him disgusting? No, that- that couldn’t be the case. John’s sister was lesbian, and he didn’t seem to find anything in her wrong apart from her drinking habits. The thought allowed him to relax, but not by much. He was beginning to think finding an excuse to be close to John, in teaching him how to dance, was just something to make himself feel a little better. Which it had been, incidentally, but he saw John’s infatuation for Mary, and he looked at her in a different way than he did his best friend. The decision Sherlock had made this afternoon was becoming increasingly more regrettable. It only made him want to cry, now that he thought of it, that he thought of the moment. He could see things, happy things, but the worst part of it all was that he knew they would never happen. He didn’t stand a chance with this young man before him. Well. He supposed that it would have to work like that. He couldn’t leave it behind himself, he’d never be able to do that, but he could understand. After all, what was he, compared to John? Hardly anything.

“You will come with me, won’t you?” John suddenly asked.

“Come with you? Come with you where?” He answered, confused now that he was out of his daze and John wasn’t looking at him with a gaze of pure loathing.

A soft smile graced John’s lips. “The dance, you git.” He blinked.

“S-sorry?”

“Don’t look so alarmed. Not to dance with me, just to be there.”

Oh. For moral support, then. Oh. Right. Of course. How could he have possibly thought otherwise? He needed to let go of the idea and get himself together. “Yes. Yes, sure.” He was blind! How could he be so blind! Tonight would be torture. Sherlock managed a tight nod.

“You sure you’re alri-”

“Fine.” He interrupted, his voice thick. Damn. Stop, stop, stop. Don’t think about it, don’t let it get to you. Sherlock took in a deeper breath and let go of John’s hand to switch off the music. He stumbled backwards, and sank down onto the bed, breaking. John was by his side within seconds, albeit looking slightly confused.

“You’re not fine, what are you talking about? You look ill, even. Is school putting you under stress or something? You know you can always talk to me, no matter what, hmm?”

No, he couldn’t, but he nodded. “I know. I know. Thank you. You’ve done well, John. Mary won’t turn you down. She’ll find you irresistible.”

John chuckled, and managed to wring a smile from his friend. “How on earth can you be sure of that?” He asked.

 _Because it’s what you are._ Sherlock shrugged. “I just know.”

“Does that make you a girl?” John answered, grinning.

“Shut up,” he said, but he was giggling lightly. “It’s time, now. Come on.”

__________________________

 

He looked happy, he really did. He danced admirably well, Sherlock noticed, as he looked down at their feet. Both of them were happy, in fact. They had each other, and in that moment it was the only thing that mattered to them. Pink, green and blue spots of light danced across John’s face, lighting up his eyes, his features… They were so close, each within the other’s proximity, they were warm, there, and so in love nobody saw anything wrong with it. It was perfect.

Long, delicate fingers tangled themselves in rusty-blonde hair, messing around slightly with the strands. Bright blue eyes rimmed with dark lashes gazed down lovingly at John, pink lips curled up into a smile as they leaned down towards John’s, and he, obligingly, tilted his head upwards to meet those lips, eyes full of lust and wonder for the beautiful creature in front of him.

 

Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore. He’d done his job for tonight, worn down his purpose. Things would change, now John had neglected him for Mary. His paper cup fell noiselessly to the ground as it slipped from his grasp. He tore his gaze away from John and turned around, putting his plumed hat back onto his head, curling the rim down so it shrouded his eyes in shadow.

His shaking he passed off as shivering from the low temperature a London night may bring with it, though he knew quite well the differences between shaking and shivering. He needed to get to his dorm, and do so quickly.

 

The hat he hung up, the cape he freed his shoulders of. He took in deep breaths as he locked the door and stumbled over to his bed, falling to his knees with a cry of anguish. How could John do this to him? How could he have possibly done that to him? It came to him that his attempts to tell John the truth had all been in vain. John Watson, rugby captain, star of the school, and best friends with Sherlock Holmes. Friends with the freak. A soft chuckle escaped Sherlock through his tears, but it was flat and not meant for adding humour to the situation.

He gripped at the sheets in front of him as he sank down onto his heels, trying to rock himself slightly to cease the crying. He’d clung onto John, his only source of human affection. He had trusted John not to put him through anything emotionally wrecking. He had been wrong to trust. But perhaps he couldn’t blame John entirely. The boy had no clue- no clue, and wether it was that which was more painful than him possibly knowing what Sherlock wanted from him, the dark-haired boy could not tell. He was falling, again. He was falling back into an area he had never wanted to revisit. He supposed it was his only option now.

 

His hands were trembling, his face covered with an ocean, the front of black shirt suffering from a rain shower. He paid no attention to either. He curled his fingers beneath the mattress and lifted. There it was. There it was, his pathway to his old home. He reached forwards and retrieved a small wooden box from underneath the mattress, placing it gently back onto the bed. Inside the box was an assortment of instruments necessary for self-mutilation or animal dissections, either worked. A scalpel, a pair of surgical scissors, tweezers. There was bottle of disinfectant, several cotton wads. But he wasn’t after that. He rummage around a pulled out a bottle labeled ‘Morphine.’ He could see the liquid lapping at the dark glass as it shook in his hand. He placed it aside and pulled out a syringe. He disinfected the needle, wiped it dry, and proceeded to screw open the bottle. He paid no attention to how much he pulled into the syringe.

He lay himself down on the bed, his head falling against the pillow, the full syringe encased feebly within his fingers. He didn’t hesitate to continue; after all, he’d done it before. Don’t get involved, Mycroft had told him. He had been right, all along. Sobbing, Sherlock willed the trembling of his hand to cease. He flexed his forearm, watching the blue veins pop out from the ale skin, and slammed the needle down as an angle into the thickest one. His thumb pressed down onto the top of the instrument, and once all of the drug was inside him, he yanked the syringe out and placed it on the bedside table.

His sobs quietened to soft whimpers as the morphine mixed with his blood, a feeling of ecstasy coursing through him. He lay there, twitching on the bed, still crying, tossing about from side to side, his turquoise eyes glistening with tears as they gazed at the dark ceiling, flat and devoid of all emotion. The morphine made him laugh a drunken, high-pitched giggle, out of tune, something that was just a side-effect of the drug and little more to him.

 

It did nothing to dull the pain in his heart.

 

__________________________

 

We were young and drinking in the pub  
There was nowhere else to go  
And you said you always had my back  
Oh but how were we to know  
That these are the days that bind you  
Together, forever  
That these little things define you  
Forever, forever

All this bad blood here,  
Won’t you let it dry  
It’s been cold for years  
Won’t you let it lie

If we’re only ever looking back  
We will drive ourselves insane  
As the friendship goes, resentment grows  
We will walk our different ways  
But those are the days that bind us  
Together, forever  
That those little things define us  
Forever, forever

 

All this bad blood here,  
Won’t you let it dry  
It’s been cold for years  
Won’t you let it lie

I don’t want to hear about the bad blood anymore  
I don’t want to hear you talk about it anymore  
I don’t want to hear about the bad blood anymore  
I don’t want to hear you talk about it anymore

All this bad blood here,  
Won’t you let it dry  
It’s been cold for years  
Won’t you let it lie?


End file.
